It was comfortable to Mr. Britain, to think of his own condescension in having married Clemency. She was a perpetual testimony to him of the goodness of his heart, and the kindness of his disposition; and he felt that her being an excellent wife was an illustration of the old precept that virtue is its own reward.
He had finished wafering up the bill, and had locked the vouchers for her day’s proceedings in the cupboard – chuckling all the time, over her capacity for business – when, returning with the news that the two Master Britains were playing in the coach-house under the superintendence of one Betsey, and that little Clem was sleeping ‘like a picture,’ she sat down to tea, which had awaited her arrival, on a little table. It was a very neat little bar, with the usual display of bottles and glasses; a sedate clock, right to the minute (it was half-past five); everything in its place, and everything furbished and polished up to the very utmost.
‘It’s the first time I’ve sat down quietly to-day, I declare,’ said Mrs. Britain, taking a long breath, as if she had sat down for the night; but getting up again immediately to hand her husband his tea, and cut him his bread-and-butter; ‘how that bill does set me thinking of old times!’
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Britain, handling his saucer like an oyster, and disposing of its contents on the same principle.
‘That same Mr. Michael Warden,’ said Clemency, shaking her head at the notice of sale, ‘lost me my old place.’
‘And got you your husband,’ said Mr. Britain.
‘Well! So he did,’ retorted Clemency, ‘and many thanks to him.’
‘Man’s the creature of habit,’ said Mr. Britain, surveying her, over his saucer. ‘I had somehow got used to you, Clem; and I found I shouldn’t be able to get on without you. So we went and got made man and wife. Ha! ha! We! Who’d have thought it!’
‘Who indeed!’ cried Clemency. ‘It was very good of you, Ben.’
‘No, no, no,’ replied Mr. Britain, with an air of self-denial. ‘Nothing worth mentioning.’
‘Oh yes it was, Ben,’ said his wife, with great simplicity; ‘I’m sure I think so, and am very much obliged to you. Ah!’ looking again at the bill; ‘when she was known to be gone, and out of reach, dear girl, I couldn’t help telling – for her sake quite as much as theirs – what I knew, could I?’
‘You told it, anyhow,’ observed her husband.
‘And Dr. Jeddler,’ pursued Clemency, putting down her tea-cup, and looking thoughtfully at the bill, ‘in his grief and passion turned me out of house and home! I never have been so glad of anything in all my life, as that I didn’t say an angry word to him, and hadn’t any angry feeling towards him, even then; for he repented that truly, afterwards. How often he has sat in this room, and told me over and over again he was sorry for it! – the last time, only yesterday, when you were out. How often he has sat in this room, and talked to me, hour after hour, about one thing and another, in which he made believe to be interested! – but only for the sake of the days that are gone by, and because he knows she used to like me, Ben!’
‘Why, how did you ever come to catch a glimpse of that, Clem?’ asked her husband: astonished that she should have a distinct perception of a truth which had only dimly suggested itself to his inquiring mind.
‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ said Clemency, blowing her tea, to cool it. ‘Bless you, I couldn’t tell you, if you was to offer me a reward of a hundred pound.’
He might have pursued this metaphysical subject but for her catching a glimpse of a substantial fact behind him, in the shape of a gentleman attired in mourning, and cloaked and booted like a rider on horseback, who stood at the bar-door. He seemed attentive to their conversation, and not at all impatient to interrupt it.
Clemency hastily rose at this sight. Mr. Britain also rose and saluted the guest. ‘Will you please to walk up-stairs, sir? There’s a very nice room up-stairs, sir.’